I often wish I owned a pub. One that looks like the Prince Arthur, preferably. The building is a striking three storeys, with grand Victorian signage. The top two thirds of the exterior are brick, with off-white paint and dark edging below. Seven lamps provide fuzzy light come evening. They bring an orange glow which pools over stooped drinkers and their shaggy dogs.
Inside and the bar is immediate, one of wood, curved beer pumps and spirits behind. There are dainty motifs: a scarf, a nondescript trophy (darts?), old booze adverts and a vintage bottle of Jameson. It’s always noisy thanks to the open plan space. Clearly this was once a proper East End boozer with a sawdust floor, creaking mismatched tables and hot pies on the counter that later became ham and cheese rolls. It isn’t difficult to imagine it 100 years ago, which is telling: a pub must always whisper about its former years; echoing from the paintings on walls hanging crooked, chatter bouncing off old brass and broken tiles.
